Carpentlicued and risen in the east unless the wet leaves of serpentine gold-laced breathing flaps are undone by the gaudy eyelashes.
Fissured oakstems struggle with worms.
Paperfaced garble-mongers spanking the squeamish conquest like an apple-biter.
Pish-pash predicaments mouldy with lead.
Hand-formed under carlights.
The speckled angels clutch each other and tumble through clouds of grass.
Carpet-bombers and king sliders sell their medicines to children from supermarket trolleys parked in rows along the banks of the Seine.
The severed head of the shaman’s uncle inflates like gum.
Animal hides scarred by rotating blades are used to smother the nightflies.
Here come the rolling firework-mules, a battalion of thieves.
Stretched across five toppled storeys of brutalism, the sleeping giant dreams of pistachio belts and yellow-baited rabbits, while high above his head the vulgar foxes rummage the walkways in search of twinkletoes.
His hair is a mudchute of traitor-chimes falling watered and growing wild.
The livid auditorium eyeballs the Greeks impassively.
Clip-clopped architraves wrestle diggerbeams to the ground, minted.
Sullen artists and bigbirds look on over carnival scenes.
A kiss-arse, a cotton bud, a diamondback cuddly wuddly, strewn with goldflakes.
Porcupines flare like tobacco in a skylight.
The custodians of the behemoth condescend to untie the apron strings surrounding the throat of a sea-eagle.
Their flawless complexions are testament to their ceaseless plenitude.
United in starlight-envy, they cluster at the foot of the shining wheatfields that rise in an arc across the sky.
Their galloping skeletons are marshalled under iron.
Their mothers turn mangle handles in the laundries of the Cities of the Plain, perfectly conscious of everything that is about to come next.
Their heads talk.
(originally written as part of a SLAG collective automatism game)